


Scratching an itch

by meanboss



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, M/M, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-19 23:22:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11908344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meanboss/pseuds/meanboss
Summary: Alternative take of what could have happened when that variant dude attacks Eddie in the basement





	Scratching an itch

However loud the screams, they didn't awake him. Waylon's phasing between unconsciousness and consciousness was the work of his will, quickly shot down by what he witnessed through the narrow openings of the locker; they didn’t awake him, but they effectively put him out of order again. An example of psychological torture where one is limited to the sound of some nearby horrors and left to conjure the scene through imagination tends to be considered the most effective method when the goal is to induce the victim to a state of helpless panic, but Waylon's imagination couldn't have come up with something as horrific as that had he been given the time and opportunity to try. And he saw the laboring corpse at the entrance of the basement, he had an idea of the level of sickness this man reached. Still, he wasn't wired this way, he wasn’t capable of this brand of creativity.

 

Like any hopeful man he tried to convince himself his future didn’t look like that, he was keeping him in that metal cage as a special treat, and special treats are treated accordingly. Didn’t know why in his mind that meant "better". He would probably just be savored for longer, rather than put out of his misery with relative speed like the other men whose backs hit the Groom's table did. It's not panic that he began to feel (briefly between fainting spells) but cynicism for his own situation, Waylon was drained of his will to live like he hadn't yet. Finally came a time where his eyes opened and he was no longer confined to the insides of the closet, but lying belly-up on top of the blood and piss of Eddie's previous love interests, a sticky wetness that glued his skin down on the surface like his thighs did on leather seats in humid days, but his body wasn’t warm; it was unbelievably cold, so much of it felt like it was still asleep. Yet trickling down his armpits and hairline were streams of sweat, before he even had the chance to grasp the concept of his situation. He's shaking his head to scare the flies away and get the blood racing to his brain, there's a light wiggle of his legs but his limbs are all sprawled and tied, spread-eagle and naked, its the most exposed he ever felt in his life; more than at his application for the military when he came of age, more than in the gym's locker room's when someone hid his clothes for a solid forty minutes, more than when he lost his virginity at the tender age of twenty-three. He isnt used to this, he doesn’t have the physical or mental build, its a situation so beyond what Waylon ever expected to face, he cannot believe it is real.

 

He could faint again, but he doesn’t feel like he is even fully there to choose to tap out for the third or fouth time. Watches the groom circle around the table with little interest, keywords of the shit he rambled on and on about being registered in his mind, and nothing else. Women and children and seeds oh god don't fucking touch me, get away from me (his leg twitched) family?

 

Something happened, something was tempered with, Waylon strains his neck trying to raise his head to look at the source of the sound, a spinning blade between his legs coming alive. the muscles in him give out and skull slams back down on the wood, the only way he can even try to procrastinate his fate is by straightening his legs, slide his body a little upwards and away from it. It's easy to do so with the remains of others beneath him.

 

He gives some sign of awareness, gasping and groaning with anticipation, he wonders if this place has managed to get this far into his head as an auditory memory of his wife giving birth to their firs worms its way into the moment.

 

The groom puts his hands on the wooden supports he had made for this intended purpose, Waylon feels his fingertips brush against the backs of his feet and hates it. He's here now, all of him; body mind and soul, absorbing this moment as he’s hit with a uncontrollable flight response, far from the quiet, withdrawn embrace of his own demise that he had decided upon. He looks right onto the face of the man who was doing this to him, takes in his every word

 

_I'll make the cut fast. Just close your eyes, and think of our children._

 

his voice sounds so loud even with the screaming saw between the two of them. He looks horrible under this blinding, yellow light, half of his face drained from life and sunken in and the other covered in pustules and scar tissue, red, looking like it would emit heat like a feverish child, blood flowing beneath his skin like it’s about to erupt. In the darkness, he looked like a monster-- with the glowing eyes and sharp teeth. Here, he looks very real.

 

Gluskin lowers his head to watch closely as the space between Waylon's flaccid prick and the blade grew smaller. Strangely enough, so does Waylon. That moment of almost-silence where he laid wide-eyed waiting for his skin to be split apart (Look at that saw, to expect a Fast and Seamless cut would be foolish, he can already see it-- his meaty little worm getting caught in its teeth, chewed up by the machine, ripped only partially away from his body and mangled like his kid's putty toys, stretched, deformed beyond recognition and it wouldn't stop there)

 

(That thing would saw right through his balls and for a change that doesn’t sound like it would be the most painful, it would split his crotch into two, make a exposed fistula between his colon and urinary tract, gaining five inches of leg and losing five inches of torso.)

 

But then an arm creeps into his field of vision, alien like a glimpse of human wrist in a puppet show, it grabs a fistful of the fabric covering the top of the groom's back, he has only the time to turn his head and flail his arms uselessly before he is rammed into the blade. Goes easily through his skin no matter how thick had it grown with layers of old and new flare ups, a sound similar to when it was cutting through the wood, only for a second before it turns to snapping, tapping, smell of burning, it caught on the underside of Eddie’s jaw, stuck still, very slightly bent, the man’s mouth is being forced shut but you can hear the scream stuck in his throat, hissing like a kettle.

 

The hand pressing down on the nape of Eddie’s neck is shaking, the elbow attached to it bends and gives it another shove, the mechanism lives. A spray of blood rains over Waylon’s stomach and thighs until Eddie’s jaw pops out of one of its sockets and he is pulled forth by it, slams the top of his head into Waylon’s crotch and sends him screaming and squirming trying to get away. The wooden panel pinned to the right of the table crashes down, the ankle tied to it follows but remains wrapped around rope.

 

The saw has stopped again, the Groom’s head turned sideways and now a part of it, a third of him cut into but his brain went unscaved—at least as much as you can call it.

 

Nothing is holding him in place anymore, but blood is quickly draining onto the table and dripping to the floor (he can hear it, a stream that turns to a trickle) his arms claw at what’s in front of him with quickly dying strength, Waylon’s soft legs. His knees buckle underneath him and the table creaks, but remains as it is.

 

Park looks up, the groom killer is a patient like they all seemed to be, one of the ones whose faces hadn’t completely gone to hell yet, who hadn’t ripped the clothes off of his body and kept the _rolling-around-blood-and-shit_ moderate.

 

One hour ago, Waylon would have breathed a sigh of relief. These are the ones who are still kind of here, right? They look so human, you don’t have to be so fearful.

 

But at this point, he had seen a lot, forgotten what a friendly face looked like.

 

They stare at each other, Eddie is faintly moaning between them.

 

He’ll stay quiet and hope he goes away.

 

_“I saved you fucking shit”_

_“helped your ass, you’re alive because of me pal”_

 

The patient growls, reaches down for Waylon’s ankle and unceremoniously untangles the ropes that connected it to the hanging board, but he doesn’t let go of his foot. When Waylon tries to yank it away, the fist tightens around it.

 

_“You gonna take my gratitude and leave it?”_

_“I scratched your back,you don’t gotta choice”_

 

He isn’t sure if it’s brainfog or if this man, who speaks so confidently and clearly still fails to make sense. Waylon, unsurely, shakes his head no. The patient flashes a grin and nods his head yes. He leans in, a hand falls on top of Eddie’s head and Waylon chokes and sobs when it is pushed against his balls, tries to scoot away but the arm gripping his foot forces him towards it, laughing at the reaction like a boy would after putting something dead in a girl’s locker. He lets go of his leg, Waylon begins to kick with the only limb he has available and writhe the rest of his body trying to break down the setup he was condemned to, tossing as far he could go from one side to the other, he no longer cares about grinding his sorry ass against a near-cadaver and keeps bumping into Eddie’s body, a _“hm”_ or _“hng”_ comes out of it each time he does.

 

The patient is now standing behind him, Waylon looks up, squinting from the harsh lights above them and suddenly paralyzed. He doesn’t have a strand of hair on his head and little to none anywhere else on his face, covered in scratch marks and other minor wounds, a bruise on the corner of his mouth as if he’s been bitten or stung.

 

Nothing in his eyes, they’re just glassy globes. His grin is still there and his teeth are surprisingly straight. He does look more human than others and yet so unnatural. Everyone here has forgotten how to think and with it everything else about acting like people—they aren’t even animals, there’s no sense of instinct or self-preservation, no rhyme or reason to what they do. The only thing they seem to crave still is violence and sex, some mask it behind fantasies of love, marriage, others don’t bother.

 

The man reaches his hands into the loose waistband of his pants, he pulls his cock out and Waylon ends up pissing himself from feeling the tip of it brush against his forehead, he twists his neck, tries to bury his face into his bicep while he groans and growls and sometimes babbles a single-syllable word. There’s not much avoiding that he can do before being pulled by his ears face-first into the groin behind him, both man’s rough hands wrap around his jaw, shoving his thumbs into the hollows of his cheeks and pushing his rancid smelling dick against Waylon’s shut lips. Grinds his face and obstructs his breathing, eyes are beginning to water and nose runs (or rather overflows), Waylon’s face is covered with sores, his skin has cracked and the tip of his nose was just a big open wound, now being scratched up against this man’s testicles, right into his septum. He has the uncontrollable need to sneeze and make some for of sound for his agony, his mouth is immediately stuffed with a dick that had grown semi-rigid, his reflex is to bite down on it, with the teeth that had been corroded by… What or how exactly he didn’t know, but he felt them with his tongue when he first woke up, now small, tender pearls, none larger than the fingernail on his pinky and yet hurting so badly whenever bottom collided with top in any way. The patient above him barely felt a thing in comparison. He enjoyed the warmth, the ridges on the roof of his mouth, when first thrusting his hips he easily knocked down one of Waylon’s front teeth, he tried to scream with but nothing came of it but a muffle.

 

Keeping his eyes shut and neck bent back to ease his breathing as best as he could. Waylon wished he’d fuck his face quicker, the patient lingers too deep in him for too long each time, poking the back of his throat, stomach acid is climbing up his esophagus, dripping down the sides his face, being rubbed into his injuries against the guy’s skin. He can hear the satisfied moans coming from above, he’s saying he’s got a good mouth, a good tongue, asking if he likes it.

 

Relief comes, Waylon gasps and coughs and sends spit and bile splattering over his own face, a tooth or two shooting out with it. He breaths in the slime along with the air he had been missing. His face is burning with the blood rushing to it and everything down to the neck pulsates, while the rest of his body remains exposed and sweating cold, so pale in contrast. He had forgotten he had limbs, concentrated fully in not fainting because he was certain he would never wake up again if he did; but he had been moving, worming about, the rope around his left ankle feels loose, if he tried, he could slip out of it.

 

A foot slams down on the table besides his head, the patient kicked his pants off and put a leg up, Waylon’s head is pulled back off the edge and neck painfully bent, mouth is wide open when the lunatic’s throbbing cock gets shoved into it. It’s wet from his mucus and it tastes somehow worse than before, tastes like whatever is in him; the shit food he had been consuming in his stay in Mount Massive, the drug cocktails fermenting in his stomach, whatever cooking process his body endured inside the engine. He imagines that if he was cut open, dissected, his organs would be all gray and have a foul stench, his meat would be inedible, blood thick as syrup.

 

They’re all in this deplorable state.

 

Foreplay was over, Waylon’s feels his mouth being pounded like a cunt, he’s still being hit in the nose and his head keeps going light with agony and that need to sneeze, eyes stinging with his salty tears and fuck knows what else. Sounds of choking and heaving and trying to cough with something thick slamming the opening of his throat shut, leaving Waylon to spasm and twitch each time he can’t see these simple tasks through. His left heel escapes the ropes, falls on top of Gluskin’s limp arm and off the table. When the realization downs on him, Waylon bends his knees and tries to prod his body up, soles slipping clumsily on the mess around him. He’s just moving, just tossing a little better than he could before. He hears the table creak, creak louder, the wood panels his wrists are bound to are being put to their limit, other than his strength he has now the weight of his body to bash into them, distress this to its fault.

 

It’s happening right in front of the Patients eyes, he is not avoiding the sight of the naked bitch, watching this faceless body wiggle around is what got him hard in the first place. He can kick the air all he wants, manages to push the groom off the saw and onto the floor but there is no chance he can achieve much else like this. He looks down at the gurgling body, Waylon makes a horrible sound and his chest shoots up, face turns and his forehead presses against the inside of the inmate’s thigh, with his penis still halfway in his mouth he vomits all that he didn’t know he had in his stomach, it flows through the significant gaps between his destroyed teeth, coats the cock with heat. The man grunts almost as pathetically as the other had been doing all this time and grinds himself on Waylon’s face, shoots a load of thick, light yellow cum on his exposed throat. For a moment he thinks the fucker might put his weight on him, might break his neck while rubbing off on him a bit too strongly, either on purpose (like his life has any value to him, he can still fuck him if he’s dead) or while being lost in this rare, blissful moment that Park could never reach in a place like this.

 

Instead of having his spine snapped, there’s another kind of crack, and the table collapses.

 

Waylon’s skull hits the ground and he sees purple and a ringing sound blows his eardrums, both fade slowly and leave behind only a pounding pain to be remembered by. The project fell apart, he slips the ropes easily off the deconstructed bits of it and rolls onto his stomach, splashing his hands onto his own vomit, gagging because there surely must be more bad stuff that needs to come out, this wasn’t all of it, it still tastes smells and feels horrible.

 

_“Hnng”_

_“Gnh”_

 

He hears him above him, the inmate is standing a foot or two away from where he previously was, having stumbled back when the structure came crashing down but otherwise unaffected, he’s lovingly stroking his dick, gone flaccid but still burning hot and colored an angry red, if Waylon cared to look up he’d see blood from his knocked out teeth on it and the indentations they left.

 

_“You gonna”_

_“Hafta finish up yourself, and like, clean this”_

_“this fucking mess”_

 

He mumbles, almost sounds like he lost some of his confidence, like he realized he did something bad or, more likely, something he shouldn’t be caught doing, and without bothering to collect his pants he leaves through the door with quick steps. Waylon coughs and wheezes, propped on the floor by the elbows and with his tongue hanging out, dripping, breathing in the steam of what he purged.

 

He’s in no rush to be anywhere or do anything anymore. He forgot his name and where he comes from, especially what he’s in here for.

 

Though Murkoff never gave a good explanation for in he first place. He wonders, again, what they must’ve told Lisa. With that in mind he starts to consider getting up.

 

Weakly, Waylon pulls his legs underneath himself and tries to sit, panting, shuddering, feels like something took a layer of skin away from him. His jumpsuit is over there, it will have to do. He’s dragging himself towards it, the bunched up pile of dark orange fabric just outside of the reach of the light.

 

Before he gets to it, a shadow towers behind his own on the ground, it rose without a sound— _no no_ , Waylon shuts his mouth and retracts his arm; he can hear the wheezing faintly above him, and conclude it had been there for a bit now.

 

Over his shoulder, the huge figure is standing with his clothes soaked in his own blood, a posture a grade lower from what it was prior, his face unrecognizable from the eyes down, messily split from the side of his chin up to middle of his cheekbone, swollen and red, mouth hanging open and a side of his jaw hanging lower than it should.

When he talks, Gluskin sprays blood and spit over him

 

_“ya sashing **slush** ”_


End file.
